


Fealty

by AwkwardAnnie



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Established Relationship, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Master/Servant, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 23:42:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5025265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwkwardAnnie/pseuds/AwkwardAnnie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An evening in Sauron's workshop leads to an interesting discovery and the renewal of a long-standing promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fealty

It had long become unnecessary for Melkor to visit the forges personally. Under the watchful eyes of his chiefs the machinery of his warmongery ran smooth and true without needing his constant attention, and any extraordinary business could always be brought before him in the comfort of his throne room. Despite this, it was a source of quiet irritation to the forgemasters that their esteemed lord persisted in skulking amongst the furnaces when they were working (or at least engaged in _looking_ as if they were working). It upset the natural order of things having upper management wandering around unchecked, poking things, getting in the way or, worst of all, asking difficult questions like “”What are you doing?” and “When is this going to be finished?” and “Where exactly has all the money we gave you gone?”. It made them nervous.

They need not have worried, for Melkor when he came down to the forges was in truth only interested in one thing, and any appearance otherwise was an attempt on Melkor’s part to pretend that this was not the case, though whether he was pretending to his chiefs or to himself was a different question. For wherever he wandered among the bustle of the smithies, he always ended up perched on a bench in a far-flung corner of the complex, watching his lieutenant at work.

It was questionable whether Sauron officially had anything that could be described as “free time”; the business of war was not something that stopped for evenings or holidays. Even so, he could often be found in his private workshop tinkering with his various projects, most of which had no large-scale application to the war effort. Melkor tolerated this partially out of a worry that without these diversions to occupy him Sauron might start wondering why he was still serving Melkor in the first place, but mostly because Melkor liked to watch. There was something satisfying in observing the act of creation, whatever form that act might take, and Sauron's interests were many and varied.

Some of his projects were weaponry: gleaming spears or wickedly curved daggers with velvet-wrapped handles, tempered with dragonfire and honed so sharp they seemed to cut the very air itself; but he was equally skilled in the crafting of jewellery and other delicate ornaments. He had once presented Melkor with a brooch in the form of a rose but carved from volcanic obsidian, black as night and a hundred times stronger than the fragile organic growths that clung to the face of Arda, so easily brushed aside and crushed underfoot. Much as Melkor favoured the raw power inherent in weaponsmithing, he had found the more subtle arts greatly pleasing as well.

For one thing, Sauron demanded absolute silence while he worked. This was an uncommon thing in Angband where business was conducted at maximum volume wherever possible, but no matter how loud the atmosphere in the fortress grew, beyond Sauron’s door was an oasis of calm that was utterly sacrosanct.

Melkor did not usually care for silence. It recalled endless timeless ages without shape or form, without light or darkness, and the great yawning vastness of Nothing. But the silence in Sauron’s workshop was not the cold, empty Silence from before the Song; it was warm and close and industrious and Melkor not only suffered it but enjoyed it.

It helped, of course, that Sauron at work was a wholly attractive image. While Melkor could appreciate the sight of the Maia in his forging leathers, backlit by the blaze of the furnaces, muscles flexing with each strike of the hammer, there was something equally charming about the quiet concentration that narrowed his eyes and crinkled the bridge of his nose. As long as Melkor was silent and asked no foolish questions, he was permitted to stare freely.

That day’s piece was a wide bronze wrist-cuff onto which Sauron was engraving the likeness of a snarling wolf. Melkor had spent the past hour sat patiently by his side, listening to the scratch of the tools and watching the play of torchlight over the jewellery adorning Sauron’s fingers. Sauron had a particular fondness for rings and was rarely seen without at least three on each hand. That day he had excelled himself, for each digit save his right thumb bore some decoration. That combined with the gold leaf currently adorning his nails made each movement of his hands very conspicuous, and Sauron’s hands were practically works of art in their own right. Like much of his appearance, they were deceitfully delicate. His fingers were long and slender, ending in nails which, while neither especially lengthy nor exactly filed to points, nevertheless gave the impression that they could be both in short order if Sauron so wished. By for all their beauty they were also strong and clever and nimble, and it was Melkor’s genuine pleasure to watch them shape formless metal into Sauron’s elaborate designs.

Finally Sauron cast down his tool with a sigh and sat back. Melkor leaned forward to peer at the engraving and broke the cardinal rule to ask, “Is it completed?”.

Sauron shook his head. “No, there is much still to do, but that will be all for today. I have the will to continue, but alas, my fingers do not.” He flexed his left hand in demonstration and Melkor reached for it almost automatically.

Sauron's hand fitted neatly into Melkor's, fingers curling around his master's palm as if they belonged there. Melkor ran his thumb over the collection of rings that gleamed against that pale skin. Each of them Sauron had crafted himself, and each was unique; some were plain, some delicate wirework and others were set with gems or stones. Melkor's favourite was the ring Sauron wore upon the third finger of his right hand: a band of obsidian in the form of a crown, set with three brilliant diamonds. The reference was obvious and immediate and it thrilled Melkor in a way he could not explain.

He brought Sauron's hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of the knuckles.

"Careful, my lord," teased Sauron. "They will be accusing you of chivalry next."

"I have been accused of worse." One kiss somehow became a trail over Sauron's wrist and up his bare forearm; Melkor had not really intended to start anything, but he found restraint difficult where his lieutenant was concerned. In fairness, Sauron did not exactly complain about the attention. Even so, Melkor had not expected the reaction when he flipped over the Maia's arm and laid another trail of kisses back down to his wrist. The first touch of his lips to the soft skin on the inside of Sauron's elbow drew forth a breathless gasp which became a groan by the time Melkor felt the thrum of a quickening pulse under his tongue.

Now, that was very interesting indeed. It had long concerned Melkor that, while Sauron seemed to have an almost preternatural ability to leave his master gasping and writhing in ecstasy using little more than his voice and a few well-placed caresses, in return the Maia was frustratingly composed in all but the most intensely physical situations. Had Melkor finally found a chink in that armour? More investigation was required.

He found himself once more contemplating the collection of fine rings. "Will you speak of their construction to me?" he asked.

Sauron gave him an indulgent smile.“Of course, my lord. Where should I begin?”

He chose the first to hand, which sat on Sauron’s thumb and bore a large oval stone, amber in colour with a bold black stripe down the centre. "Tell me of this one," he requested.

"There is not much to tell, my lord. It was an early effort. The stone is a cat's eye opal; I am sure you can see whence the name comes-" Sauron broke off with an odd noise, for Melkor had taken the gold band between his teeth and drawn it off Sauron's finger. He took it from his mouth and held it up to the light, admiring the shades of orange and yellow that striped across the stone's surface.

"Beautiful," he said, and it was true, but he may have exaggerated the rapturous note in his voice slightly for the sake of effect. Then he placed the ring on the table and turned his attention to the next in Sauron's extensive collection. "And this one?"

Melkor was sure he sensed a certain breathlessness in the way Sauron described the shaping of the next piece, which was actually three separate rings cunningly wrought so that while no two were joined, nevertheless the three altogether could not be parted. It was an interesting idea, but far more enthralling was the sound Sauron made in the back of his throat when Melkor’s teeth tugged the intertwined bands from his hand just like the first one. There was no doubt now that Melkor had read the situation aright; Sauron’s hands were as sensitive as they were subtle. Oh, there was some fun to be had here.

The ring on the middle finger of Sauron's left hand was a plain gold band, but Melkor suspected that there was more to it than met the eye.

"It is true, my lord," said Sauron when Melkor voiced this theory, and this time he definitely sounded slightly breathless. "There are markings, but they are only revealed with heat."

Of course. Sauron was a cunning creature, and such deceits suited him. But how much heat, wondered Melkor, and how might it be applied? And then an idea arrived, and it was so delicious he could not ignore it. All at once he took the long finger into his mouth, as he might have taken an altogether different part of Sauron’s body. He pretended to ignore the Maia's surprised moan, hooked his teeth around the ring and drew back slowly, even going so far as to flick his tongue over Sauron’s fingertip, and the whine that produced was nothing short of glorious. He pulled away only reluctantly and took the ring from his mouth. There was no obvious change in its smooth surface.

"Alas," he said, "it appears I am not hot enough."

“Give it to me,” Sauron said, and so delighted was Melkor by the scratch of arousal clouding his voice, his pupils so wide they were nearly circular, that he neglected to berate his servant for his rude manner. He held out the ring, but to his surprise Sauron took it not in his hand but in his own mouth, lips brushing Melkor's fingertips. He closed his mouth for a moment, and when next he opened it Melkor felt a rush of hot air. There on Sauron’s tongue sat the ring and about its rim blazed delicate markings, smoldering as if they were molten stone poured into the engraving. After all, Sauron burned hotter than most.

Sauron added that ring to the pile himself, a gesture of tacit consent to this strange game they seemed to be playing, and the glow of the markings caught in the opal’s depths like torchlight in the eye of a great beast.

Melkor took his time with the two remaining fingers of Sauron’s left hand, teasing and caressing with lips and teeth and tongue while Sauron’s moans grew louder and more needy. Finally he drew the ruby-encrusted silver band from the Maia’s smallest finger and placed it with its fellows on the table. Then he tugged on Sauron’s now-bare hand, pulling him out of his seat. Sauron went willingly, even eagerly, and when he settled himself in his master’s lap Melkor felt the press of the Maia’s arousal against his own.

The already flimsy pretense of enquiring into the shaping of the rings was completely abandoned now, and instead Melkor concentrated on Sauron’s right hand, lavishing as much attention on the fingers there as on the others. He left the black ring to last and by the time he got there Sauron's breath was coming in little keening gasps, his hips rocking shamelessly against his master's.

"And what does this signify?" he asked, as if he had not guessed.

"Loyalty," groaned Sauron with another roll of his hips. "Fealty. An oath to serve."

"Whom do you swear to serve?"

"He Who Arises In Might. The Constrainer. The Tyrant. Tree-breaker, Gem-thief, Shaper of Dragons, Lord of Angband. Melkor, Morgoth Bauglir, wisest and--ah!--mightiest of the Valar. My lord, my liege, my master.” Sauron ended this string of lovely titles with a searing kiss that dragged a growl up from deep in Melkor’s chest. “ _You_.” 

Melkor had to fight to keep his voice level for the sake of the game. “And how should I reward such ardent devotion?”

“Accept my service.” Immaculately shaped nails dug into the back of Melkor’s neck. “Lay your claim on me. Use me to your pleasure.”

“And how would you have me use you?”

“Take me,” Sauron snarled, nails dragging sharp lines up Melkor’s scalp. “Hard. Fast. Here. _Now._ ”

That was a request that Melkor could not deny.

There was a brief but exciting flurry of activity which somehow ended with most of the contents of Sauron’s workbench on the floor and Sauron himself pinned on top of what remained, legs wrapped around Melkor’s waist and eyes wide and burning.

“I accept your service,” Melkor growled in his ear, “Mairon, Sauron Gorthaur, Admirable and Abhorred. Blacksmith, Sorcerer, Song-weaver, Father of Wolves, Captain of Angband. Most faithful and trusted lieutenant.”

“Thank you, my lord,” breathed Sauron, and then he did not say much of import for some time.

Finally, when the air seemed incandescent and Sauron’s cries had grown desperate and Melkor’s skin felt too small to contain the scorching light of his spirit, he broke his pace long enough to take his lieutenant’s head in his hands and press their brows together.

“This is my claim on you,” he said. “Never forget: you are mine.”

“Mine,” echoed Sauron, and he reached out with both hands and pulled his master down to him.

  
  
It was not until many, many years later that Melkor thought back on that moment, on the legs tight about his waist, the nail-marks down his arms and that one whispered word, and realised that he had not been the only one laying a claim.

**Author's Note:**

> Intrigued by the mention of Sauron's unusual ring? [This post](http://lady-gorthaur.tumblr.com/post/131412488183/) may interest you.


End file.
